Chapter Eleven
The Night They Killed the Khan
As the sun set over the valley, Jarl the Entertainer sat with a group of dogmen within the walls of the fort. They had treated him coolly at first, until he asked them about their weapons. One of them had grudgingly showed him how he could disarm and behead a man in one smooth motion, with the veiled threat that he could do the same to Jarl. Jarl had acted amazed. Another dogman showed his dagger double-stab technique to the Entertainer, who acted amazed again, and before the dogs realized what was happening they were competing with one another to impress the Entertainer with tales of their prowess in battle. The Entertainer took notes, smiling all the while.
They’re so tough and seemingly in control, thought Jarl. But a little patience here, a slight nudge there... and they’re no different from little children! They’ll be revealing their stories in no time!
“Well, now,” said Jarl. “You guys are alright.”
“Alright, he says!” laughed one dogman, elbowing another beside him. “You listen to me, human: Our pack is the roughest of the rough!”
“No arguments here!” said Jarl, slapping his back. “But tell me, I’m a little confused about your ways. See, I thought that chiefs or shamans ruled the tribes.”
“Ah,” said an older dog warrior, nodding. The younger pups grew silent. “This is the way of things. There are packs. Hunters, scouts, teams of warriors. Trusted battle-brothers, you see? There are clans, made up of many packs and their families. A chief is head of a clan. Sometimes they have a shaman to counsel them. The chief of a clan picks the greatest warriors from the packs to act as his guards. If a chief is called out in a duel by someone within the clan, he may send a guard to fight for him, if he is old or tired or busy. Then there are tribes, made up of many clans, and those tribes are as old as time itself. Every tribe has one big chief that oversees the entire tribe. These big chiefs always have a circle of wise shamans. There were twelve tribes of dogmen who came out of Hargis. There are six tribes who survived and came into the Black Valley.”
“I see,” said Jarl, scribbling in his notes. “So who’s really in control, you think? The chiefs or the shamans?”
“Two different worlds,” said the old dog, throwing his arms out wide. “Heaven and earth! The shamans watch the heavens, the chiefs work on earth.”
“Here’s where I’m really confused,” said Jarl. “Where does the Khan come into it all? I mean, did that man Vito create the position?”
“One cannot create such a thing. Vito was not the first. One only becomes Khan when the heavens are properly aligned. Only then can a Khan come into being. And there is not always a Khan.”
“There isn’t? But there have been many Khans, then?” Jarl’s pulse quickened. This was the stuff of legend!
“Many Khans, yes. The first dogman was a Khan himself. Not much is known about him. But he was the greatest dogman, and his twelve sons were the fathers of the twelve tribes. In the Garden, long ago, Khan Prime and the Lion were friends.”
“The Lion... that’s one of the four gods of the wasteland...”
“Yes, yes. They were friends. But when the Garden fell to rot, and the earth refused to give up her bounty of food, the Lion became quarrelsome. Khan Prime stopped the Lion from eating his twelve sons. But after the Lion left, the people were still hungry. So the Khan gave up his body, so that the families of his sons could eat.”
“Oh, goodness,” said Jarl, pen shivering over his parchment.
“Yes, it was a good thing. Otherwise our people would have starved and died, long ago.” The old dog noticed that others had gathered to listen, so he scratched his beard and chest hair, raised his eyes in thought, and said, “Many years later, but still long ago, the dog warrior Wargram became a Khan among his people. Humans had come into the land, you see, and using gifts they turned the sons of all tribes against one another. All dogs fell into sin, and none could see that humans were the real enemy. All they could see were the gifts of men; they could not see the war for the battles, as we say. But the dog Wargram, he and his brothers rose up against the humans. He even became a criminal among his own people. But he tricked the chief of the humans into a duel, and the humans watched in a great arena as Wargram killed him and many others. Wargram told the story of his people to other humans, who did not know the extent of the hardship of our people. So the humans became divided. Wargram knew that he would be executed, but on the night the humans killed him, the dogmen, and even some humans, killed the wicked men and drove them out of the land. His sacrifice saved our people.”
“I see,” said Jarl. “He gave up his life, not unlike Khan Prime.” Jarl was beginning to pick up the template, as any good Entertainer was taught to do. Something began to bother him.
“Certainly, not unlike,” said the old dog. “Then there was Grimgold. In his days, dogmen gave sacrifice to flesh demons. This was a terrible time. Among our people, we say that only weak humans give up their own as sacrifices to devils. Better to die with legs outstretched than curled up in a baby-position, we say!”
Many young pups howled at the statement.
“But those were bad days,” the old dog continued. “Dogs were behaving like men, selling life in exchange for life. But Grimgold, he rose up as a Khan, and learned about the ways of the devils. He directed war parties from all the tribes, and they killed many devils and drove others back into the earth. But a great war demon rose up from the deep, a terrifying demon called Vengeance. None could stand against him. Vengeance declared that he would leave only if he was allowed to eat the corpse of the Khan. Khan Grimgold did what he had to do: He laid down in the mouth of the demon and was eaten. But Vengeance was not sated. He stayed on, and killed more dog peoples.”
“Ah,” said Jarl. “So sacrifice doesn’t always work?”
“But the ghost of Grimgold came back, and he made his brother Grimmergold the Khan. And Grimmergold said that he would let himself be eaten, if only Vengeance would leave. Of course the demon consented. Grimmergold marched right into the mouth of Vengeance... and attacked his stomach, hacking away like a good dog!”
The pups barked wildly, kicking legs and elbowing one another in the stomach.
“And Grimmergold died a good dog!” barked the old one. “He died in the stomach of Vengeance, kicking and barking like mad!”
“That Khan, uh, sacrificed himself, too?” Jarl said uneasily.
“For his people - yes! And then there was Sangewe. His story is most wondrous of all!” The old dogman paused, then said, “Shit, I can’t remember it so well. But the Khan Sangewe ended up chopping off his own head to make peace between no less than ninety-nine clans. He was so strong, you see, that no clan could trust another, because his strength would tip the balance of power in the favor of any clan that would have him...”
“I... see...” said Jarl, intuition ringing in his chest like an alarm.
“Then there was the Khan Vito. Long ago, when many warriors here today were still pups, Vito saw that the city of Pontius wanted to tempt the mighty tribes within her gates. With sinful promises of wealth and ease, she wanted to deflate the manly pride of the dogmen. So the Khan Vito, he sacrificed himself in order to keep his people out of her gates. It is a difficult thing to understand, but, well, his sacrifice was supposed to remind the dogmen of the old ways, the hard and manly ways. And it worked, thanks be to the gods!”
“Thanks be!” said the younger dogmen. “Thanks be!”
“That’s funny,” Jarl muttered to himself. “From what I’d heard, it sounded like he was killed against his will.”
“Ah, but before that, there was the Khan Morgamorg-”
“Wait!” said Jarl. “Did he sacrifice himself to bring an end to some conflict?”
“Oh,” said the old dog, “you’ve already heard that one?”
“Never heard it in my life,” said Jarl, rising suddenly, “but I think I’ve heard enough!” He gathered up his parchment, hands shaking, and le
ft the gathering.
* * *
Jarl found Freyja sitting with a group of farmers and laborers, all of them laughing and whispering, while Freyja painted her masterpiece bow. It was blood-red.
“Freyja!” Jarl hissed. He was running, but slowed suddenly when many eyes fell on him.
“Jarl! Look.” She held up the un-stringed bow. “I just finished it. It’s a super-weapon for a super-Khan. I can’t even string it myself. But these guys are going to help!” She threw a thumb behind her and Jarl saw two beefy laborers doing push-ups, working themselves into a fever-pitch so that they could string the mighty bow.
“That’s great,” said Jarl, voice cracking with feigned enthusiasm. “Hey, by the way, uh, speaking of which, do you happen to know where, you know, Wodan is?”
“I don’t know where he is. But when I find him, just imagine the look on his face when I give him the bow!”
“Yes, his face, that’s dynamite. Now, listen - are you sure you don’t know where he is?”
“Pretty sure. Now, this bow. You might want to record this, Jarl. I’m going to call it-”
“Great. That’s fantastic. Nothing to worry about, dearest, everything’s under control!”
Jarl turned about and ran toward the fort.
* * *
Jarl passed Naarwulf in the fort, screeched to a halt, and ran back to him. “Naarwulf!” he said, motioning towards an empty room. Naarwulf sent away several dogmen, then approached and nodded curtly.
Jarl looked up at the massive dogman. “Naarwulf, this is very important. I’ve been listening to some stories about the old Khans. You know the stories, right?”
Naarwulf paused for a long time. “Sure.”
“Well, did you notice how they all end?”
“They all end differently,” said Naarwulf. “But evil perishes and good triumphs.”
“No, no, no, Naarwulf. They all end with a Khan dying for the good of his people.”
“Well, that’s about what I said.”
“Naarwulf, haven’t you heard the dogmen grumbling about the failed attack? Rumors and such about Wodan’s lack of bravery?”
“Dogs will bark,” said Naarwulf. “What of it?”
“Naarwulf, listen, I’m...” Jarl leaned in and whispered. “I’m an Entertainer. An En-ter-tain-er. Do you know what that means?”
Naarwulf stared at Jarl for a long time.
“That means I’ve been trained to see the patterns in stories! And in reality!”
“... Okay.”
“Naarwulf, you’re not getting me. I think Wodan is in danger!”
“I doubt that,” said Naarwulf, looking past Jarl as if he was already considering some other matter. “The Khan cannot be killed. I’ve seen him fight. He’s the most powerful-”
“In a one-on-one fight, sure, but when things go bad, Naarwulf, don’t you think some malcontents might try to murder the Khan? To sacrifice him, you know, to stop future failures, and then paint a shiny gloss on the murder after the fact?”
“You think someone might try to assassinate the Khan?”
“Yes!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I did!”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, storyteller,” said Naarwulf. “None of these knuckleheads could do anything to hurt the Khan. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Where is he?”
“Meditating, most likely.”
“Meditating?” said Jarl, screwing up his brow.
“Of course! What of it? He often goes out on walks, unarmed and alone-”
Jarl turned and ran.
* * *
Jarl ran into Nilem’s chamber and the stench of stale sex hit him as soon as he walked in. Nilem whirled about, pushed something under a blanket, and glared at him.
“Nilem!” said Jarl.
“I’ll scream!” said Nilem. “Why are you in here?!”
“Nilem, I have to find Wodan! Where does he take his walks?”
Nilem’s eyes darted back and forth, her face frozen. “Why would you… ask me… something… like that?”
“Nevermind that! Do you think he’s around here, or out in the woods? Have you seen anyone following him?”
“Why would I know something like that?” said Nilem, adopting a cool demeanor even as her face turned red. She paused for a moment, then said, “If you don’t leave my room, I’ll scream!”
“Woman, I’ll fucking scream if I don’t get some help around here!”
* * *
Jarl ran into another room and saw Yarek Clash standing over Chris Kenny, who was laid out on the ground, unconscious, his face purple.
“So that’s the ultimate Reaver choke-hold,” said Yarek. “Next I’ll show you how to break a man’s wrist as you disarm him, when you wake up.”
“Yarek!” said Jarl.
Yarek turned to him. He regarded him silently, cold eyes boring into him.
Jarl was intimidated into silence, but then he remembered his mission. “Listen, Yarek. You know that the dogs are unhappy about the failed attack, right? Well, I’ve been listening to some stories about other Khans. Not one of them was killed in a one-on-one duel. All of the Khans, all of them, were either murdered or sacrificed in some way.”
Yarek thought for a moment, then said, “You think some dogmen that are unsatisfied with Wodan, but unable to kill him in a duel, are going to try to assassinate him and then spin the whole thing like it was necessary for the survival of their people?”
Jarl sighed in relief. “Yes!”
“Alright. Wodan usually goes out for a walk about now. I’ll get my boys on the situation right away.”
* * *
Wodan ranged out past the fields of plowed earth until he was deep in the woods. Even without his wolfskin cloak, the farmers had recognized him and were happy to see him. But Wodan only felt guilt when he saw them gathered on tree stumps sharing their meals with one another. He felt the weight of their dreams on his shoulders alongside the threats of the valley, not the least of which was the horde of dogmen clinging to his back.
The last light of day hid in the twisted treetops. Strange birds called out in the darkening mist. No one could give him counsel any longer. When he used rational means to probe at their problems, he was continually plagued with visions of the cave he’d found so long ago, and Miss Oliver’s tales of intelligent bear cubs. He cast the thoughts from his mind.
Things will fall apart, Wodan thought. Perhaps I could send emissaries into the mountains. Maybe we could find the primitive humans living there, and learn from them. Learn how to…
The absurdity of it struck Wodan. What would they teach him? How to avoid the monsters whose existence stood between him and his goals? Wodan knew that he had already brought enough wise, hard-working people with him, and now those very people were in danger of being eaten alive by an army of dogmen that were only a few short steps from turning feral.
What will I do? Wodan thought. I couldn’t just leave the dogmen behind, where they would eventually kill the people of Pontius. But now they…
Wodan stopped suddenly. The birds stopped singing. All became still.
A dead branch snapped, and Wodan slowly turned.
A line of ten dogmen stood before him, large ones with great hairy arms. They all had swords from the Hargis mines held low before them. Their faces were hard and unreadable. One dog at the end held a thin whistle and blew it several times, a signal to two other teams further out.
Wodan looked them up and down and his heart began to thunder. Only a thimbleful of his great intuitive reservoir was needed to read the situation.
“I thought you used spears to hunt animals,” said Wodan.
“We’re not hunting animals,” said one dogman. Wodan and the dogmen stood as still as stone. Their eyes crawled over his body. A few were smiling.
Finally another dogman said, “The shamans, they tell us that the rite of the sacrifice is just as important as the rite of the duel.
Older, it is. More holy, in some ways, though not everyone would understand.”
Wodan felt his vision sharpen, felt colors becoming richer. His hands would not unclench. “Just do what it is you came here to do,” said Wodan.
Another dogman licked his lips, then said, “Oh, great Khan! Any last wo-”
Before the dogman could finish his snide remark, Wodan shrieked like a monster and threw himself into the middle of them. The killers were startled and slow to move; in a flash Wodan was upon the lead dogman, and head-butted him with such force that the dog’s skull split with a terrible cracking sound that echoed from the trees. The dogmen raised their swords and moved to surround him. One killer rushed toward him and, mindful of hitting his own comrades, brought his sword down in a wide vertical chop. Again Wodan took advantage of their hesitation and moved to the side, then rushed to the periphery of the circle. In a split-second he had that dog and another held by their throats, throttling them as he dragged them about. He spun around, tripping the dogs he held and forcing the others to back away.
More dogmen called out in the distance – a team of ten dogmen armed with bows and arrows.
“Those two are already dead!” cried one dogman, frustrated that the second team would see them having trouble with their victim. “Kill him! Get in there and kill him!”
The two held by Wodan could offer little defense as their comrades fell on them, swinging and hacking with wild blows. They were a grunting, spinning whirlwind showering blood on the grass. A sword smacked Wodan in the head, peeling back flesh and sending stars across his vision.
“There! There!” cried an archer. The others notched their arrows and took aim. Wodan tossed the two dead dogmen on either side, knocking others about and breaking the circle. With blood in his eyes, Wodan raced ahead. One swordsman thought to stop him, but Wodan caught him in the jaw with his elbow, shattering his neck as he ran. Wodan felt a sword dig into his shoulder and tear down his back, then a hail of arrows streaked past. Wodan ducked and ran, and a dog directly beside him was filled like a pincushion. Wodan tore through grass and brambles, then fell crashing over a steep ravine.
Demonworld Book 5: Lords of the Black Valley (Demonworld series) Page 16